Taking A Leap
by xxFeline.Of.Avenue.Bxx
Summary: Written for my independant study with the prompt "imagine you were in a fight with a fictional character". I chose Gabe. Rated to be extra mega safe.


I Don't Own Next to Normal

I'd love to hear some feedback, especially about the ending and the characterization, I'm iffy about both of those things.

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><p>"Are you sure that's a good idea?" I know the voice, would know it anywhere, could pick it out of a crowd, but still, I look up to acknowledge him. Even though I shouldn't.<p>

One last time.

I weigh the tiny objects in my hand, looking carefully over them. Purple, sleek, easy to take. His shirt is the same color.

"What else am I supposed to do?" Same old dance. He makes a decision about my actions and if he doesn't like them, he drives me to questioning it myself, no matter how strong my resolve is. He's too charming that way, too sly and I am too easy to manipulate because I care too much about what he thinks. He thinks he will win. But not this time. My family and I are hurting, they need me to do this. "Yes Gabe, I'm going to take these." I murmur, almost ashamed to admit it. Almost afraid to hurt him. He's upset, I know, but he's not furious. I don't expect him to be. Gabriel Goodman does not get mad. He gets even.

"Why" His voice is so soft, barely above a whisper and I dread looking up into his eyes, so instead, I keep looking down at the tiny purple objects in my hand. I can imagine his expression thought, which is bad enough. Brow furrowed, lips slightly parted, eyes hurt because of how unfair I'm being. I am unfair. How could I hurt him?

"Because I need these." I say simply and I watch as his hand makes it's way over to mine, watch as his fingers curl around mine and close it into a fist, hiding the purple things.

"Don't." He insists in such a smooth tone, like he is positive that this is the right decision and I dart my eyes down to our feet, mine covered by neon polka-dotted socks, his by sneakers. He never liked taking off his shoes inside of the house, even when my mom wanted him to. And somehow, he always found a way to convince her that such an action was unnecessary.

He is so close, I can rest my head on his shoulder and sleep. I want to. But I can't.

"Stop it." I tell him, although my order is feeble. Less than feeble. Even now, when he is trying to talk me out of saving myself, he still offers more comfort than anything or anyone I have ever known. And it's because he's got me hooked. If not, he'd be smirking at me, mocking me, laughing at my decision, telling me that I don't really want it anyway, that I'm lying to myself, that I'm being stupid. But because I'm me and he's him and he knows exactly how to work me, he will not taunt me. "I need these." I remind him.

"You need me." I don't argue, he's not being cocky, he's being truthful. But his point is moot anyway. "I thought you said you were okay with this."

"I was. Until last time. When mom found out. And then my sister and brother and dad. We can't go through that again, I can't go through that again. The doctor said-"

"Your doctor doesn't know you. Not like I do." He says in this urgent tone that's so convincing, so sure, so right that I am sure he's telling the truth. He's got this way of getting me to do what he wants, convincing me that he's never wrong. Wrapping me around his finger. "You have to trust me." He insists and for a second, I am hooked, I feel my hand begin loosening, ready to drop the things to the ground and give up, but I get an eyeful of the angry red scars down my wrists and forearms and my hand tightens back up.

"Gabe, I'm breaking. I need to take these, they're the only things that make me better." I tighten my hold around the pills in my hand. He's got this slight rigidity in his stance that says he's trying to help me but I'm being nothing but a petulant child and I feel that way now, immature and stupid because I care about his opinion. Too much. But he's got this way of making everyone love him and I can't help it because I love people so much anyway.

"There are other ways." He promises and his hand slides up the inside of my forearm, up my arm, my shoulder, my neck, pushing my hair aside. I pinch my eyes shut because this isn't helping. I want nothing more now than to rest my head on him. He touches my hair again and I know he knows everything that's going on inside of my head because I don't just know him well, he knows me too well, knows exactly how to get under my skin.

"Not for this." I breathe, bringing my arm up a bit, ready to put those pills to my lips when he wraps his arms around me and I'm sure my willpower is gone. My head against his chest, his arms around me, my arms pinned to my side. It's like being with a predator who couldn't lure you in and now, they're simply going for the kill, the one thing they know will end their victim.

"You'll be alright without them." His voice is so promising that I close my eyes and sigh, and just let it be. He's right. He doesn't want to leave and he'll have to if I take them, and why would I ever want him to leave? I move my arms up so that I can wrap them back around him but then, it's like those tiny purple pills weigh a thousand pounds in my hand and I know exactly what I have to do, I know that I need to let go of him.

"But I won't." His arms stay around me, tight and solid and warm and everything I know they aren't now, but always used to be. "Gabe, let me go." My voice is feeble and we both know I don't mean what I say, but oh how I wish I meant it. But he does, very slowly, release me, hands still wrapped around my upper arms and once again, I drop my eyes to our feet because if I look up, I will give in and he wins most fights, but this is one I cannot lose.

One of his hands slide down into mine while the other reaches into the purse that I left on my dresser and it's a reflex to yell at him for digging through my things but then I see him pull out the bottle of pills. What is he doing? He has played a wild card. I realize I'm shaking. Because whatever it is he's doing with those, unless he's walking to a toilet and dumping them, I did not see it coming, even though I know Gabe like the back of my hand. When he does something unpredictable, he's on his last legs, and it's scary as hell because now, he will stop at nothing to get his way, even if he hurts one or both of us.

"Gabe…?" My voice is trembling too, which is no good because he's like an animal, he smells fear and pounces and I see victory in his eyes.

"These are a bad idea." He tells me, holding out the bottle in the palm of his hand and usually, those words, him giving his honest opinion, it appeals to much to me because it's so blunt and so real, but not now, not when this look is appearing on his face that says he owns me, he can control what I do.

"Gabe, I need them, please, just understand!" I feel a migraine coming on, he's impossible to fight with.

"You want to take them?" He raises his eyebrows. His face is softening a bit, I'm not looking directly into his eyes, so I'm safe, but his whole face is becoming something closer to the Gabe I'm used to, the Gabe that will be sarcastic and arrogant and mocking, but at the end of the day give me a hug and remind me why I like him so much. I nod. "Then those three won't do the trick. Take the whole bottle, it will be painless, not like last time."

"No!" The scars on my arm seem to tingle with that last mentioning and my throat is tightening the way an anaconda tightens around its prey. "That's not what I want!"

"Your mom will understand—"

"No, she won't!" I'm crying now and I never cry, I hate crying, even at funerals I can only squeeze out a couple of tears, but now there is a fat, wet drop streaming down my cheek. All of these memories flood back and I can't put my mom through that again, finding me unconscious, having to rush to the hospital, having to wonder if I'll live or die.

"But we could be—"

"I know! That's not what I want!" I remind him and by now, his hands are deadlocked to my face and the pill bottle is set aside and he's trying to make eye contact, that's the only way he can win this and he wants more than anything to win. He needs me to need him and I always will, but I need this more.

"You don't have to do this."

"Yes, I do!"

"But I thought you—"

"I know what you think I think and I know you know exactly how I feel, but this has to stop!"

"But I'll be…" His voice dies and I know he's trying to make be feel guilty but I can't! And I'm so frustrated, I wish we could just agree again and have things back to the way they were again. But something too important has changed. "Why would you do this to me?" Something snaps. Something inside me rips open and pops.

"Because you're dead!" Because you're not really here. Because you've been dead for sixteen months. Because I walked into a car and you pushed me away and in doing so you were the one crushed by the car and I got off without a scratch. Because you meant so much to me and now I'm seeing you everywhere when I shouldn't, hearing your voice in my ear, always. Because you convinced me to try to join you and I ignored my aversion to blood and razors for you and my mom found me bleeding out and had to rush me to the hospital and wonder whether or not I would live or die. Because I can't be in the same room as anyone in my family anymore and they can't look at me without thinking of how pitiful and terrible it must be to be me, to see someone who isn't even there and be so attached to them. Because I miss you more than I can handle and I shouldn't. "I shouldn't see you and I do and the doctor said these pills will make you go away and I need that!" I cry and I can't even believe what I'm saying, but I have to say this and I finally meet his eyes and feel my body crumple like the crumbs of a cracker and I do everything I can to stop myself from falling over because I don't want him to catch me.

"You…you won't leave me behind." He whispers and I grit my teeth and look up at him again, and I will risk it. It is only when my icy, shaking hand is raised to my mouth that he reacts, nearly jumping, taking my wrist in his hand. "Please don't, I don't want to leave you." He insists and I don't want him to go either, but it's the only way I can live, can breathe, can move on and not spend my life shouting at phantoms.

"I'm sorry." I choke out and put a hand to my mouth, dry swallowing the pills.

His eyes are so pleading by in a matter of minutes, he is gone.

I have never felt emptier in my life.


End file.
